Awake
by partiallyyours
Summary: Something is wrong with Mr. Carson.
1. Chapter 1

It had been awhile since she'd last made a bed, but her muscles remembered the movements. Several of the staff were ill with the familiar round of early winter colds. There was a new maid to be trained. It was with this maid that Mrs. Hughes was making the large bed in the Princess Amelia room. Mrs. Hughes looked up in time to see the maid in the motion of slapping the pillow heartily. Recognizing that particular pillow, Mrs. Hughes tried to stop her.

"Helene, not-"

Too late, the weak stitching gave out and the pillow released its countless feathers to the air. It was at that moment that Mr. Carson walked into the room. The downy feathers began to settle on every surface in the room, including their clothing. The plumes seemed to have a particular affinity for the material of Mr. Carson's jacket.

"Helene," she said, "fetch a dustpan and a very slightly damp cloth."

"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Hughes," Helene was bravely trying to hold in her tears.

"It's not your fault, Helene. That pillow should have been repaired days ago. Go on now." Mrs. Hughes was kind, but firm.

Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes simply looked at one another. His eyebrows were raised, but his expression did not otherwise change. She looked back with exasperation in her eyes. Neither needed to say that there was no fault here. Simply another inconvenience. He turned his back to her and began plucking the largest feathers off his front. Speaking to one another in the type of silent shorthand only present in people who've worked together for years, she immediately went to him and began to extract the feathers from his back. With an economy of movement, they made short work of what was able to be done with just their hands. About done with his back, she asked,

"Was there something you needed, Mr. Carson?"

He shook his head. "It's all right, Mrs. Hughes. I'll see that the matter is taken care of."

Taking the offer of help, she replied, "Thank you, Mr. Carson."

She stepped in front of him and held out her hand to take the extracted feathers from his. He deposited them and raised his chin, silently requesting she give the front of him a once over. Noticing that he'd been unable to see the feathers near the top of his chest and his shoulders, she began removing them. Though organized as usual, her thoughts were seven different places at once. Which was only about two more places than usual. The morning routine was the tightest of the day, with the least room for adjustments. She quickly made the necessary changes in her mind, frowning slightly.

"Well," she sighed, "That's about as good as we're going to get. You're presentable enough, but you'll have to get one of the boys to brush-" she stopped, suddenly aware that he'd placed his hands on the underside of her forearms. She looked to his face, a question on hers. And saw an expression she'd never dreamed would be directed at her. His face was like thunder. Or perhaps intense confusion? Maybe both? Before she could even think, she tried to take a step back from him. But his hands wrapped around her elbows, easily able to close completely around their circumference.

Frankly, she was terrified. He couldn't possibly be angry about feathers. She knew he wasn't. He'd been resigned about the matter only moments ago! What had changed in mere seconds? She worried something was wrong with him. She'd watched her grandfather have a stroke and he'd certainly done some strange things during the crisis.

"Mr. Carson?"

His hands tightened.

"Mr. Carson!" Louder now, "What on earth is the _matter?! _Are you ill?"

The muscles in his jaw clenched once. Twice.

And then he thrust her away from him, releasing her.

Bewilderment written on her features, she rubbed her arms.

"I-" he began. Stopped. Straightened his shirtfront. Looked her in the eye and said, "Thank you for your assistance, Mrs. Hughes." He stepped out of the room as Helene was returning.

Mrs. Hughes' mouth was agape. She was grateful for Helene's hardworking nature as the maid immediately began cleaning up the feathers, hardly sparing the housekeeper a glance. It gave Mrs. Hughes precious seconds to recover her composure. What had just happened? Other than illness, she couldn't think of a single thing to have caused his bizarre behavior. Shaking her head as though she could physically remove the incident from her mind, she continued with her morning. Mrs. Hughes was left utterly confused and entirely unsure if she would ever find out the reason for this extraordinary incident.

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	2. Chapter 2

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He rubbed his throbbing forehead with his fingers. He'd managed to avoid her most of the day. His mild headache was probably at least partially due to missing two meals. But now it was well into the evening. Any minute now she could walk through his pantry door. And he had absolutely no idea what to say to her. Certainly she'd want an explanation for his supremely odd behavior. He had none to give. He didn't know himself what had happened. He tried to look back on the events objectively.

Her fingers had been deftly removing the feathers from his back. Tucked far beneath most of his usual thoughts was the faintest feeling of pleasure where her hands brushed against his back. Other than the occasional touch of a lady's hand, he was mostly unfamiliar with close personal contact. So used to burying any distracting thoughts, he was hardly aware of the lovely tingling sensation started by her fingertips wherever they touched him.

But then, she'd come to stand before him. He recalled handing her the feathers he'd collected and her beginning to remove more of the clingy motes from his chest. The sensation of having several items brought stunningly to his attention all at once was strong in his memory. Her scent hit his nostrils, she worried her lip as she always did when concentrating, the sun lit her from behind, and he noticed the very smallest of the feathers settling gently into her hair. It was...magical. In that moment, years of discipline fell away. He wanted to feel arms around him. He wanted to brush the finest feathers from her hair. He wanted to lean forward and inhale more of her fragrance. He wanted to tease her lip away from the grasp her teeth. Most of all, he wanted _her_. Badly. He didn't remember grasping her arms. He _did_ recall actively holding her as she tried to step back from him. Still, he had no idea how the expression on his face looked to her. The monumental struggle to keep from kissing her he would remember forever. Throwing thanks to whomever might listen, he was profoundly grateful that he'd been able to push her away. Though that was simply another thing to add to the growing list of explanations that he owed her.

Time.

He needed time.

He could offer her no explanation at this moment and he didn't know if he ever could. Telling her the truth never even crossed his mind. They'd worked together for years. There had never been any impropriety between them. It was unthinkable. Their positions were the very symbol of incorruptibility. He wondered if his sins could ever be forgiven. He knew one thing: if there was any hope of the two of them continuing to work together, this needed to stop immediately and a reasonable explanation needed to be made.

Anna stepped into his pantry then and said, "I'm off now, Mr. Carson. Mrs. Hughes isn't down yet."

"Of course, Anna," he responded. "That's fine." He paused. "In fact," he said, "I'm heading up early. I've a bit of a headache." He tried not to feel like a deserter.

"I hope you feel better, Mr. Carson," Anna said, frowning slightly. She could count on one hand the times the butler had gone willingly to rest due to illness.

"Thank you, Anna. I'll see you in the morning." And he went quickly up the stairs to his room.

Anna was in the process of preparing a powder for Mr. Carson when Mrs. Hughes appeared.

"Oh, Mrs. Hughes," she said with a smile, "Mr. Carson went up early with a headache. I was just going to bring him this powder. Would you like to-?" she let the question hang.

Mrs. Hughes paused. It would seem odd if she said no. "Yes, of course, Anna," she said. "You go on home now."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes. Good night."

Mrs. Hughes finished preparing the powder and placed it on a tray with some odds and ends from the kitchen. She was sure he had to be hungry as he'd missed the latter two meals of the day. With every step she took up the stairs, her mind wavered from asking him what he'd been about earlier, to keeping silent and praying neither would mention it ever again. Waiting a beat outside his door, she knocked, waited until he responded, then entered his bedroom.

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	3. Chapter 3

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Already in bed, his mind had been racing. At the knock, his heartbeat entered the race. Ignoring the knock wasn't an option. He could only delay, as though he were getting dressed. But that would just postpone the inevitable. Praying it wasn't her, his stomach dropped when she entered his room. His heart made a valiant effort to jump out of his chest when she shut the door behind her.

"I've brought a powder and some food," she said quietly. "Anna said you had a headache."

"Yes, uh, thank you," he replied, hoping that he sounded dismissive enough that she would leave.

But she didn't leave. She set the tray next to his bed and when she sat in the chair, he resisted the powerful urge to dash to the door.

"You weren't at luncheon," she said softly.

"No," he said.

"You weren't at dinner either."

"No," he said again, looking down at his hands.

She waited, her lips alternately caught between her teeth or pursed in frustration. But he wasn't offering her anything.

_God damn it!_ He swore in his mind. He knew he needed time to form the right words, but he hadn't anticipated what her presence would do to him. He wanted her just as much now as he had this morning. Every time he glanced in her direction, her lips seized his attention. And her playing around with them wasn't helping matters. He was trying to create ways to get her out of his room when she spoke again.

"Mr. Carson," she leaned forward in her chair, clearly earnest in her concern. "Are you ill? Is there something you're not telling me?"

To his horror, he almost let out an hysterical laugh. _Something he wasn't telling her? Yes, indeed there was. _But he'd be goddamned before he let her know. Nothing would bring him more shame than admitting how he'd let her down. How he'd thought of her so improperly. He'd die first.

At his extended silence, she let out a breath, lifted her head, and stood abruptly. He couldn't help but see her eyes shining. Pacing away from him, she wrung her hands.

"There _is _something!" She looked back to him for confirmation. Again, he gave her nothing.

"Mr. Carson," she said, her voice low. "I realize that this must make me seem a - well, a hypocrite to you." Her gaze was on the floor.

"But I wish - I would hope that you could tell me if there were anything - " she stopped then, realizing the futility of her request. Certainly she hadn't been forthcoming about her health in the past.

She made one more attempt.

"I know now how worried you must have been." His stony expression remained and she gave up entirely. "All right," she said gently. And she walked toward the door.

If he'd thought keeping from holding her this morning was difficult, it was nothing compared to the effort needed to keep from answering her questions now. A voice in his head kept trying to convince him to confess. His earlier convictions were melting away. _What could happen? _the voice whispered. _She'll understand. _Her pleas pulled at him. Ultimately, it was her worry that tipped him over the edge.

"Wait," he called to her. Lifting away his blankets, he stood and stepped toward her. She turned to him, uncertainty in her eyes. Her hand was on the doorknob.

"I'm fine, Mrs. Hughes. I'm fine," he smiled, trying to show her that he spoke the truth.

Her hand fell away from his door and she turned to him fully. Now her hands were both held out to him, pleading again.

"What _is _it then?" she shook her head in confusion. "You can't pretend that nothing happened earlier. Can't you _see_ how worried I am? Did I do something? Are you angry with me? You must tell-"

"I wanted to kiss you." He said it with the same timbre he would use when discussing the dessert wine.

Time slowed.

It didn't make sense. His words didn't make any sense to her.

"What?" she blinked and shook her head, as though trying to wake herself.

"I wanted to kiss you," he reached for her hands, but she held them away, the memory of his grip still strong in her mind. None of the things he was saying made any sense. She had no illusions about her allure. She was completely honest with herself when she looked in the mirror. She'd known this man for years and he'd never made any advances toward her. Had never held her, never danced with her, never kissed her cheek during celebrations, never hugged her for comfort during tragedies.

"Me?" she was incredulous.

"Yes, you," he laughed.

His laughter infuriated her. She'd been driven to distraction all day, worried almost constantly for him. She clenched her jaw.

"I don't believe you," she whispered, a tear sliding down her cheek as she turned away from him.

He frowned. This was going badly. He had the feeling of something very precious slipping away. Regret flooded through him. He should never have told her. He should have lied, should have come up with anything that would allow their working relationship to continue. But now it was too late for all of that. Now he had only one option: to convince her that he was telling her the truth. All of his other concerns fell away with the need to reassure her taking prominence.

"It's true," he rasped. "I wanted to put my arms around you. I wanted to kiss you. I wanted to feel the skin of your neck."

She let out a sound that was between a moan and a hum. It was a sound of despair, of pain, of hopelessness.

"Why are you doing this?" she cried. It took a great effort to speak beyond the tears that were now freely falling.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, he replied, "Because it's true. Because I never wanted to hurt you. Because I didn't want you to worry anymore. Because you asked."

She gasped through a sob and turned frantically to the door. "I have to leave," she wept. He didn't know if she meant that she needed to leave the room, or leave Downton altogether, but he was immediately panic-stricken.

Lunging for her hand, he begged, "Wait, please."

She moaned again but made no move to take her hand away. Gently, he turned her so that she faced him. His hands were on her shoulders and she whipped her hands up to hold his forearms in a steely grip. It was as though she couldn't decide whether to cling to him or shove him away from her. He considered it an excellent sign that she wasn't pushing him away. With his voice lower than she'd ever heard, he said, "I'm going to kiss you."

After only a moment of indecision, her hands changed their grip on his arms, conveying her consent without words. His face changed then. It had been cajoling, compassionate. Now it was firm, purposeful. And he was staring at her lips. To her tear-clouded eyes, he looked almost predatory. If she could have pushed farther back into the solidity of the door, she would have. He saw her eyes widen, and was instantly worried that she would change her mind. His tender plans to gently work his way from her neck to her lips vanished. She let out an alarmed squeak as his lips collided with hers. She tried to steady herself by flinging one hand back against the door. With the other, she clung to his shoulder.

The smell of her that had clouded his judgment earlier was now exponentially stronger. No longer trying to restrain himself, he let it fill his mind. Even a mere hour ago, nothing could have convinced him that he would have ended his day in a passionate embrace with Mrs. Hughes. But her worry, her compassion for him, and his desire for her had all conspired to put them in this position. He had been worried that she would withdraw her consent at any moment, but her hand on his shoulder was a beacon in the dark. It was just a small thing, really, but it gave him hope. Hope that she might want him in the same way that he had wanted her. If she would just give him the chance, he knew her faith in him would be well protected. He set about persuading her the only way he could. She wouldn't believe his words, but he prayed that his hands, his lips, and his body would convince her.

Her mind in a cloudy swirl, she didn't notice when he placed his hand on her hip, but when he squeezed the flesh there, she jerked. He threaded his fingers gently through the strands of her hair. And then finally, finally, she leaned into him. He wasn't even sure she was aware of her movements. But he would take it. He would most definitely take it. His lips had been mostly immobile, allowing her to get used to their presence. Now he began to move them. He tried to remember the very few novels of a certain type that he'd read in the past. Uncertain of what she would allow, he made a decision. He breathed slowly against her lips and gave his hands and mouth free reign. His hands moved up and down her sides, his lips teased hers apart. He slid his tongue from one side of her bottom lip to the other. Her moan was the stuff of his darkest daydreams. Pulling her to him, she tentatively wrapped her arms around his neck, needing to stand on her tiptoes to do it.

"Thank God," he whispered and he fell to his knees, pressing his face to her middle . Astounded, her hands hovered in the air before settling on the sides of his head. Her lips were a bloodless line. Keeping quiet became nearly impossible when he slid his hands to the back her calves and massaged her legs. To stay upright, she leaned heavily against him. Desperate to run her hands through his hair, ruffled now, she almost wept with frustration. Until she realized there was no reason to hold back any affection. Her fingers weaved their way through the peppered softness and he groaned. He shot his hands up to her thighs and she let out a wobbly and far too loud, "Ah!" Glancing up at her in alarm, he knew he needed to find a way to keep her quiet. His kisses seemed the best option, but he wanted to find a place where they could sit together, be comfortable. Eyeing his bed, he tried to tell himself that he would just sit with her. Only for a few moments. Just long enough to convince her of the truth of his words. He would show her how desirable she was. And then he would let her go. They would part with promises and soft words. With these thoughts in mind, he contrived a plan.

She never wanted him to stop. Didn't think she could bear it if he did. She'd never thought of this man in this way. Not deliberately. She could not claim fault for those dreams from which she awoke covered in sweat, wetness where there shouldn't be. But when he'd made the outrageous claim that he wanted her, a hidden part of her woke up. And it terrified her. He had only claimed to want her body.

She wanted everything.

When his hand went from her calves to her thighs, she almost screamed. Mortified, she made a deliberate attempt to control herself. This effort held her in good stead when his hands, already under her skirts, went to her hips and lifted her off the ground. She didn't know if her stomach or her heart dropped into her shoes, but the sensation of being lifted and carried was nothing like anything she could have imagined. He only needed to take two steps to reach his bed, but she clung to him. She was not afraid of falling. Rather, she was full of gratitude for this moment in time. Her skirts already up to her hips, it was easy for her to straddle his lap as he sat on his bed.

Gazing down at him, full of passion and power in her new vantage point, her thumbs traced his earlobes and her fingers gently massaged his scalp.

"Kiss me," he said. It was not a command. It was a plea. He was utterly vulnerable. He let her know with those two small words how much power she had over him. He was the one to persuade her here. Now he needed to know if she thought it was a mistake. His eyes looked sad to her and she gave him a reassuring smile. And then she gave him what he asked for. She kissed him with every ounce of feeling she had for him. Every Christmas gone by without a dance, every crisis that had woken them in the middle of the night with no one to comfort her, every time she had needed to be held. It was all there in that kiss. She sucked fervently on his lips, his groans pushing her on. Gently, she placed her thumb on his chin and pulled down, opening his mouth to her. There was almost nothing to hide his response from her. He was only in his night clothes and her undergarments were pressed intimately against him, thanks to his move with her skirts. She rocked against him, unashamedly trying to have as much contact with his hardness as she could.

Quickly spiralling to a place from where he knew he could not return, he grasped her upper arms and pulled her so that her lips pulled away from his.

"Elsie," he groaned, closing his eyes.

Her name on his lips made her eyelids heavy for a reason she couldn't name.

"We need to st-" he didn't finish because she was undoing his buttons. After she slid his top off his shoulders, she took a moment to run her hands over his shoulders and the top of his arms. Then she stood, laughing weakly when her legs proved less than steady. She toed off her shoes, then turned her back to him.

"You do the back. I'll do the front," she ordered.

He quickly complied, delighted to be able to explore the mysteries of her corset and other confining garments. He was not able to explore long. She made quick work of everything save her shift and climbed back onto his lap. Pressing his lips to her once again, he pulled her to lie next to him on his too-narrow bed. Their legs tangled together as he shifted to lie on top of her.

"Yes," she whispered to him. She held him close; the feeling of his weight pressed against her was heavenly.

"I'm too heavy for you," his brow was furrowed and he looked around him, frustrated at the lack of options.

"No!" she was quick to reassure him, "No, you're not. Stay." She smoothed his forehead with her fingers. "Stay," she repeated.

"Are you sure?" his voice was coarse, afraid she would leave any minute. In response, she reached down to pull at the waistband of his bottoms. He finished undressing and lifted the hem of her shift, his palm learning the softness of the inside of her thigh. She whimpered, he felt her trembling, and he slowly lowered the top of her gown. Closing her eyes, she guided his hand to her breast. At first, he was gentle, not knowing how to keep from hurting her. But her moans and her body pressing into his hand encouraged him. Roughly fondling her, he wanted to touch every part of her breast, but didn't know if it was allowed, if it would hurt her, if she even wanted it.

"Can I-" he started, unsure of how to ask, "Can I touch-"

"Yes yes yes," she whispered. "Please, God, yes." She writhed on the bed, his fingers drawing closer and closer to the spot that desperately wanted his touch; she'd thought he'd been deliberately trying to drive her insane. When he caressed her nipple, the sound she made combined with the tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes forced his hips to jerk against hers. She felt the hardness there, and opened her thighs, trying to take him in.

"Christ! Elsie!" he groaned.

"Now, please! Now!" she wept.

There was nothing on earth that could have stopped him following such a command from this woman. Bracing his hands on either side of her, he pressed himself against her, the wetness he found there thrilling him more than anything ever had. Until he entered her completely and she whispered, "Oh my God."

Both were quickly lost in the rhythm of their lovemaking, each thrust equally met. It could have been hours or mere moments before she felt herself climbing towards a release. Even though she'd allowed herself an occasional moment with herself, she could tell this was going to be different. The build up was excruciating pleasure, and the slight sense of panic she felt due to the worry of not being able to control herself made her say, "I-I'm going to-"

"Yes," he answered, sensing her fear. He was torn between helping her control the noises they were both sure would come and pushing her further over the edge. In the end, he did both. Bending his head, he latched onto one breast, pulling the tight nipple into his mouth and swirling his tongue around it. He covered her mouth with one of his hands as she screamed her climax. Her hand joined his, pressing it harder to her mouth. Unendingly thankful he'd thought to stop her cries, she bit down softly on one of his fingers. It went on and on. It was everything he could do to keep from his own release until she finished.

"Elsie," he said, his voice low.

She looked up to him, her face wet with tears.

"Elsie, say my name," he asked.

Reaching up to caress his face with both hands, she sobbed his name as though it were a prayer.

"Charles."

Trying to make it good for her, he'd only been gently moving inside her. But when she brokenly cried his name, he let go, finally able to give her everything. After, when he lay beside her, he was able to drift off to sleep knowing that she knew now. Knew that he'd been honest with her. Knew how he cared. Knew how desirable she was.

She held his head to her breast as he fell asleep. She stroked his hair, again and again, shedding silent tears. She'd given everything she had to give, and now she had nothing.

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	4. Chapter 4

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She managed to dress quickly and quietly as he lay sleeping. Years of walking the same halls gave her the ability to move to her room while making no noise. Shutting her door behind her, she leaned against it and let out the breath she'd been holding. She was only able to remove two or three pins from her hair before her trembling hands made the task impossible. A clenched fist pressed to her lips and one arm wrapped around her middle, she slid down to the floor. She'd had very little practice keeping soul-wracking sobs quiet, but she managed. She rocked forward and back, again and again, hand pressed to her mouth to keep the sounds of her despair within her small room. Her other hand repeatedly clenched and released the cloth of her dress at her middle. She mourned the woman she thought she had been.

Everything she'd ever told the girls in her care. Everything she'd ever known to be true about what a woman gave away when she handed over her body. Every piece of advice about hearing promises before losing something irretrievable. It all echoed through her mind now, mocking her and her foolish, wicked decisions. All of the trust placed in her by her employers tortured her. She didn't blame him. He'd told her what he wanted and she had given it to him. Wholeheartedly, lovingly, purposefully. She'd been so relieved at his confession and utterly overcome by the shocking surprise of her feelings for him. Constant work and discipline had allowed her to ignore what she now knew had been there for years. She loved him. Desperately. Every protection her mind had offered her all these years had been stripped away by his kiss.

And he'd offered her nothing. Nothing beyond his own body. And she'd taken it in full payment.

The worst of it all, though, was the fact that she knew, _knew, _that if he called for her again, she would go to him. She couldn't pretend for even a moment that she could resist him now. Now that she knew how his skin felt against hers, how he could draw the noises from her, how very much in love with him she was. The best she could promise herself was that he would never know. He wouldn't know that she now lived with regret. He wouldn't know how strong her feelings were for him. She knew that it wasn't possible for him to feel about her the way she did about him. If he had had even the smallest inclination in that direction, he would have said something about it. No. He'd offered her what he was able to give and she would ask no more of him. And when she was alone in her room at night, she would weep for what she had lost.

Only a few rooms away, Charles Carson, butler of Downton Abbey, dreamed of moonlight and lavender.

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	5. Chapter 5

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After a few minutes of strange looks, Mr. Carson had to leave his place at the bottom of the stairs. He wanted to be the first thing she saw when she walked down that morning. More precisely, he didn't want to wait one second more than was absolutely necessary to see her face. But the staff were surely wondering why Mr. Carson was hovering at the base of the stairs. And so he had to content himself with waiting for her at the breakfast table as he would usually do. But this morning was not usual. Not surprised that she was gone when he woke in the morning, he nevertheless longed to see the reassurance in her face that she believed she had chosen wisely. That she had no regrets. He was certain that he had overcome her doubts and that she was now convinced of his love. Now he needed the assurance that she'd accepted it.

The smile she gave him that morning was among the most difficult things she'd ever had to do. But her reward was instant when he beamed at her.

By silent agreement, they met briefly in his pantry after breakfast. Both longed to reach for the other, but neither dared risk it. He'd closed the door, but even a closed door was no guarantee of privacy, and so they simply spoke in quiet voices.

"Are you alright, Mrs. Hughes?" he asked. "Are you feeling well this morning?" One hundred questions were there in the few words and they both knew it.

"Yes, Mr. Carson," she replied. "I'm quite well, thank you."

Relieved, his look changed then. His eyes wandered over her form and back to her face, conveying his desire for her. If she'd had any brief thoughts through the night of trying to stop this catastrophe before it started, his look swept them neatly from her mind. She swallowed, her cheeks grew hot, and she gave him a promise of, "Later."

"I'll come to your room tonight," he said softly. His jaw was tight with the effort of restraining himself. She frowned and started to shake her head.

He held up his hand in protest, and she smothered a smile at how the imperious gesture came so naturally to him.

"I insist," he said. "I won't risk you being caught in the hallways." He dared to reach for her hand then. "Wait for me?" he asked.

She nodded, unable to speak for the tears threatening the back of her throat. She did love him so. If only he had offered her the same instead of a common affair. But she would be grateful for the crumbs she was thrown. It was the promise she'd made to herself and to him, though he would never know it.

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Alternating between pacing and sitting at the edge of her bed, she waited for him. She tried to think of ways to hold in her tears when he came to her, never doubting that he would. How could she hold in the soft words of love she knew she would want to say? Calling on every ounce of willpower in her possession, she waited. Finally, just after midnight, she heard the door click softly open. Her heart beat a fantastical rhythm against her ribcage as she rose abruptly to stand.

With beads of sweat on his forehead, he quickly closed the door behind him. While his trip to her room had been uneventful, it was nonetheless harrowing. Even though she'd managed it the night before, he was glad he had chosen to come to her room and that she was spared the difficult trip.

"Hello," he said lamely, disappointed in himself that he hadn't taken the time to think of anything more profound.

"Hello," she responded softly.

Moving at the same moment, they flew into one another's arms. It felt to her as though his hands wrapped almost all the way around her head as he kissed her lips, her cheeks, her nose in rapid succession. Clinging to his arms, she kissed him back when she could catch him with her lips. Slowing after a few moments, he rested his mouth against her hair.

"I've thought of you all day," he sighed.

"Have you?" she whispered. It could easily have been taken as a sweet nothing breathed into his ear, but he heard something in her tone and lifted up her face with both of his hands.

"Of course! Were you worried about me?" his forehead was furrowed, but he smiled softly. "Were you worried I wouldn't come?"

She dared not speak, her eyes shone with tears but he misunderstood the reason for them. Holding her close again, he tried to reassure her.

"I will always be here. Whenever you want me. I swear it," he vowed.

"I believe you," she sighed, swallowing her tears.

Pleased that he'd been able to dispense with her worries, he allowed his hands to wander where they'd wanted to be all day long. When he could feel her softness through her night clothes, he gave a low hum of displeasure.

"What is it?" she asked.

"I wanted to see your corset. I'd like to decide how best to peel it away from you," he replied before he kissed her neck.

Eyes wide, she felt his words like a lightning bolt to her center. Blinking rapidly, she deliberately set aside her misery and swore that she'd try to enjoy what little time they might have together.

"Next time, I'll leave it on for you," she said as she ran her hand down his chest.

His head came up from her neck and gave her a surprised look.

"Tomorrow?" he asked hopefully.

"Tomorrow," she answered.

He wasn't as timid this night. He wasn't rough exactly, just bold. Firm. And she was grateful. She didn't know how she would have held in all the sweet, sentimental, altogether inappropriate things she wanted to say if he'd chosen to be tender with her today. He'd pushed her robe off of her shoulders before he began undressing himself. She stood by, watching him, planning on how she might undress him with her own hands when she was more prepared, had perhaps gotten more used to their arrangement. He came to her then, lifting her nightgown over her head. She lifted her arms, complacent, and folded them around his neck. More prepared tonight than the last, she was able to keep quiet as he laid her down and pressed inside of her. When he bent his head to hers as he filled her with his climax, she couldn't avoid the few tears that escaped as she held in her cries from her own release.

* * *

When he rose from her bed after he'd been holding her for a few moments, she was surprised and disappointed. Resigning herself to the fact that this was the best way, she closed her eyes while she gathered the strength to rise and say goodnight. She jerked when he pressed a cloth to the inside of her thighs. He cleaned her gently and she was utterly still with shock. She still hadn't said a word when he settled back next to her. What happened then was the greatest test of her resolve yet. He began tracing her curves and lines using only his fingertips. Clearly delighting in exploring every inch of her, he turned her this way and that, first feeling the softness of her back down to her bottom, where he lingered for a long while. She whimpered and moaned at the completely foreign sensation of having her body worshipped. His fingers sent waves of pleasure through her entire body. Longing to tell him how she adored him, she chewed the inside of her lips to hold silent. She could have managed giving herself to him every night, but these slow caresses nearly undid her resolve.

He pressed his hand to her thigh so that she would wrap her leg around him. She happily complied and he whispered to her, "So beautiful." She kissed him to stop him from saying anything else that might make her do something foolish. Well, more foolish than making love to him every night. Sensing her discomfort, he deduced that she would prefer he not say overly emotional things. He understood, remembering with shame the time he'd scolded her for being sentimental. Giving a mental shrug, he was happy to prove his love for her with his actions. He sighed contentedly and pressed her closer to him.

Feeling him start to drift off, she gave him a soft shake.

"Charles," she whispered. "Charles, wake up." _My dear, my darling, my love. _She held the words in their prison.

Looking up at her dreamily, he heaved an overly dramatic put-upon sigh and said, "I suppose." Despair and humiliation pushed their icy pins into her heart as she watched him dress to leave. The sight of him putting on his clothing seemed to shine the harsh light of reality on her sins. Oblivious to her distress, he called her to him to kiss him goodbye. She obeyed and then went to her door to check for anyone in the hallway. Before he slipped completely out the door, he turned back and stole another kiss. She huffed in mock indignation with a smile on her face. She was left alone to contemplate her shortcomings. After walking across her room, she sank slowly into her bed.

And, just as she'd predicted, she wept bitter tears into her pillow.

**If they won't get their act together on the show, I punish them!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Thank you all for reviewing! You know they mean the world to me! And huge thanks to my wonderful beta, deeedeee**

The next night, as promised, she left her corset on for him. Pleased, he led her to the bed to stand before him as he sat on the edge. He actually rubbed his hands together when he looked the confining garment over. She laughed aloud at that and he gave her his most winning smile.

"Let's see what we have here, shall we?" he spoke to himself.

When he reached for a tie near the front, she looked at him with a haughty glare.

"No," she said.

He frowned. He tried again, at a different spot this time.

"No," she said, even more sharply this time and slapped his hand.

He gave her an incredulous look and tried once more, turning her around to look at the back of the thing.

"Wrong," she snapped, clearly enjoying herself.

He narrowed his eyes and looked around the room, locating her sewing scissors on the nearby table. After rapidly slicing the ties, he removed the corset and tossed it aside. He said happily,

"There now! Another problem solved by Charles Carson, butler of Downton Abbey."

Later, she would think that she probably should have given him at least a little bit of a hard time. But at that moment she could only laugh helplessly. Bringing her close to him, he pressed his face to her breasts for a moment before looking up at her. He saw her eyes closed and felt her hands clenched into fists on his shoulders. Frowning, he took her hands and unfolded them, massaging the circulation back into them.

"Elsie," he said, "Are you happy? With everything?" He paused and looked into her eyes. "With me?"

Her heart breaking, she stroked his hair and managed a barely audible, "Yes." She justified the lie by telling herself that she was happy when she was with him, for the most part. Never mind that she was in a state of intractable misery every other minute of the day.

Still frowning, he stood up and rumbled, "Show me."

Choking back her tears once again, she wrapped her arms around him and kissed him softly. He sighed and pressed his face to her hair. Placing his hand gently on the braid at the back, he asked, "Will you take it down for me?"

Certain he couldn't know how he tortured her, she stood still for a moment, surprised. Unless she was washing it or brushing it, her hair was always confined in some way. It hadn't even occurred to her that he might want to see it. Afraid to speak, she lifted her hands to her hair and began unraveling the braid. Eyes glued to her hands, he sat back down on the bed, occasionally grazing her hip or breast with his hands. She fought back waves of hysteria at his tender treatment, reminding herself constantly of the nature of their arrangement. He didn't love her, had never said so, had never asked anything of her save her body.

Watching her hair fall about her face, he again threw a prayer of thanks heavenward for the love of this woman. On a whim, he'd asked about her hair. And now he was so very glad that he did. It was longer than he'd thought. And far more full of waves. It framed her face in softness. He had spent the last few days in a kind of happiness that he hadn't thought possible. He'd heard about people opening new chapters in their lives, but he felt as though he'd discovered an entirely new library. It was full of books he'd never even imagined could exist.

They made love with her hair falling about them. He took his time that night, lavishing slow attention on every part of her skin that caught his gaze. Desperately, she tried to push him to be faster, firmer. She could hardly stand this touch that seemed so loving. But he pushed back her every attempt, slowing her, trapping her hands when they interfered with his intentions. After she fell apart in his arms, he once again saw the tears falling falling from her closed eyes. He looked at her with confusion, half a smile, and a question in his eyes.

"You always cry, Elsie." He stroked her hair, clearly waiting for her reassurance.

She leaned her face into his hand and chose what she thought was the lesser of two evils. Instead of telling him everything on the tip of her tongue, she sobbed silently into his palm. Alarmed then, he took her face in his hands.

"What is it, Elsie? Have I hurt you?"

"It's nothing, Charles. Nothing. I'm fine. Wonderfully fine. I don't know why I do that. You must forgive me." She prayed he would accept this half an explanation and forget the matter.

Her begging his forgiveness was the only thing that allowed him to move past his concern for the moment. He held her close while he fought the pull of sleep. She made a valiant effort to hold in her tears until he left her once again. Her victory was an empty one.

* * *

**Lay down on that couch over there. Tell me what's on your mind, friend.**


	7. Chapter 7

It had been one month to the day that Elsie Hughes had entered Charles Carson's bedroom. Only the very few people who knew Mrs. Hughes well noticed any change in her. One week ago, Mrs. Patmore had stopped the housekeeper.

"Mrs. Hughes, is everything alright?" Mrs. Patmore asked.

At her questioning look, Mrs. Patmore elaborated.

"Only you seem a little...down in the mouth lately. It's not anything...anything recurring, is it?"

Realization dawned on Mrs. Hughes' tired face and she hastened to reassure the cook.

"No, Mrs. Patmore, I'm quite alright, I promise you."

To Mrs. Patmore's surprise, Mrs. Hughes reached out to give the cook's hand a brief, friendly squeeze before continuing on with her day. Mrs. Patmore watched Mrs. Hughes walk away, still not convinced that all was well with her friend.

It was late in the day, and Mrs. Hughes had begun to notice the slight changes in her vision that heralded the arrival of a sick headache. Once every few years or so, she would have a debilitating headache, usually brought on by a period of excess strain. Only Mr. Carson, Mrs. Patmore, and Anna knew of them. Normally, she would soldier on with her day, her pain unnoticed by most. Her eyes began to tear with the painful sensitivity to light and she gave thanks that it was later in the evening so that she could retire in darkness and silence. Navigating the stairs and hallways would be difficult, however. As she stepped out of her sitting room to begin making her way, she saw Mr. Carson's silhouette there.

"Oh, Mr. Carson?" she called.

"Yes, Mrs. Hughes," he responded cheerfully. She flinched inwardly at the natural volume of his voice.

"Has Anna gone home?"

"Yes, she was just off. Can I be of assistance?"

"No, no, I was just going to have her lead me up the stairs."

He noticed her painfully squinting eyes then and went to her side.

"Your sick headache?"

"Yes. I was hoping Anna would help me to my room. I'm not seeing too well at the moment and I'm quite dizzy, to be honest."

"I'll help you," he began to take her elbow, happy he could do this for her.

"You can't take me to my room," she protested. "People will see!"

"Nonsense! I am assisting you to prevent you from coming to harm while you are ill. There is nothing wrong in that." He tucked her arm into his elbow then. In too much pain to argue, she allowed him to lead her while she kept her eyes closed against the light.

In her room, he undressed her gingerly. He'd undressed her several times before this night and he was grateful he had the skill to help her now. Down to just her shift, he led her to her bed and knelt on the floor next to her. With the gentlest of touches, he trailed his fingers over her back in just the ways that he knew relaxed her. She hummed her approval. Elsie Hughes had been on the receiving end of his skillful fingers more than once. Now, he used all of his knowledge of muscles and of her to relieve what pain he could. And gratitude could not describe all that she felt at his touch. He was comfort, he was joy. He was home. And she loved him.

He noticed that her breathing was starting to fall into the rhythm of sleep. Wanting to whisper endearments in her ear before he left, he simply said, "Good night, Elsie." She seemed to shy away from anything too sentimental. And he respected her wishes.

"Good night, Charles," she murmured.

Before she even opened her eyes in the morning, she braced herself for the pain that she knew would come with the light. Certainly the pain was there, but far less than was usual. She knew that it was probably due to being able to sleep right away and also Mr. Carson's tender ministrations. She thought back to the past month. He'd come to her almost every night. Before his every arrival, she suffered the torment of wondering whether this night would be the one when he would decide he was done with her. During their time together, she was able to set aside the pain she felt at doing something so completely against everything she'd ever been taught and chosen to believe. She was happy when she was with him.

But it had to end.

Last night, he'd been so kind and thoughtful. She realized she'd come to rely on him too much. Loved him too much. She was getting closer and closer to telling him her true feelings. And the last thing in the world she wanted was to burden him. And even if a miracle happened and he fell in love with her as she loved him, it didn't matter. Married housekeepers and butlers were a thing of fantasy. They couldn't simply find other positions. It was wholly ridiculous to expect any kind of happy ending to this farce that they'd made together. Every night they were together they risked their positions, their characters, and their entire careers. It had to be stopped before she ruined him. He'd asked little of her and had given her so much. Every new experience they'd had together she would keep in her heart forever. She'd been able to keep her pain from him and she was certain that she'd be able to go back to being the friends and coworkers they were before she'd made this colossal mistake.

She settled on telling him later in the evening. She knew if she let him back into her room, she'd lose her resolve. And so, that night, after everyone but the housekeeper and butler were in their beds, she called him into her sitting room.

"Mr. Carson, I need to speak to you."

"Of course, Mrs. Hughes. Are you feeling well? Your head?"

"Oh, yes. Yes, thank you for your assistance last night."

He waited patiently with a calm smile on his face. Looking at his placid countenance, she almost lost her nerve. He certainly didn't expect any bombshells tonight.

"I think it's time that we admit...rather, I think that we can both see that the time has come to end this." She was unable to meet his eyes.

"What?" He was dumbfounded. His mind, in an effort to protect him, refused to understand her meaning.

Pained now, she said, "Mr. Carson, please. Surely you can agree that what we've been doing is wrong."

He stared at her for several moments. Finally, her meaning registered with him. Fury blossomed in his breast. Only his love for her kept him from lashing out at her.

"No, Mrs. Hughes, I do not agree. If I had thought it wrong, I would not have done it. But now that I know your thoughts on the matter, I will bother you no longer."

His anger at her was quickly replaced by anger at himself. He'd misread the entire situation. He'd assumed, quite wrongly, that she loved him as he loved her. It was clear to him now why she had shied away from any endearments or sentimental talk. And now she was done with him. Before he could embarrass himself further, he bade her goodnight and left the room.

At the click of the door, she collapsed to her knees, despair such as she'd never felt making her retch. And in the attics, every man in his bedroom wondered briefly why a door slammed so loudly.


	8. Chapter 8

Six months had passed since Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes had shared a kind word with one another. Six months and no one was the wiser that the butler and housekeeper of Downton Abbey had had a sordid little affair. No one noticed that Mrs. Hughes had lost weight. No one noticed, or if they did, no one cared that Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes no longer had their late night chats over sherry. Service life was a busy life. And it was a hard life. Laughter and smiles were infrequent enough that their absence wasn't noticed. The two most professional people on the entire estate would never let it be known that there was any change in their private lives, cheerful or devastating. It was just this trait that was the hallmark of the best servants.

While their work was unaffected, they found new and inventive ways to avoid one another. One of the many techniques they employed to evade one another's company was to take a long, winding way back from church on Sundays. In the past, they'd almost always walked back together, her hand tucked neatly into the fold of his arm. Unbeknownst to each, they'd been utilizing the same tactic for months. One Sunday, she decided to veer from her usual circuitous route in hopes of getting back a few minutes sooner. And who should she find upon turning round a hedgerow but Mr. Carson himself, heading back to the Abbey. Expressionless, he stopped and looked at her. She actually looked behind her briefly with the irrational thought of retreating the way she had come. But there was nothing for it now.

"Good morning, Mr. Carson," she said, walking toward him.

"Mrs. Hughes," he responded civilly, continuing his walk with her at his side.

The walked in silence for mere moments before the clouds let loose a heavy rain. Ever prepared, they both unfolded their umbrellas and continued walking, glad of the extra distance they provided. But then, starting with a few distinct 'pings', the hail began. The round chunks of ice were massive. They threatened to tear the umbrellas to pieces. They glanced quickly at one another and it didn't have to be said that they needed to find shelter. Mr. Carson saw the cottage a moment before she did and shouted, "There!" In a near run, they arrived at the door of the cottage at the same moment. He banged on the door, hoping to impress upon the occupants the urgency of their situation. After a few seconds of silence from within, he tried the door. It opened easily.

It was clear that the cottage was uninhabited. Dust cloths, where they still remained, were more dust than cloth. They both took a moment to catch their breath and to shake what water they could off of their clothing. He removed his hat and, in silence, they walked to separate windows to observe the unusual storm. After a few minutes, she carefully removed the dust cover from a surprisingly intact sofa and sat down. He thought about offering to start a fire, but even though the fall storm was severe, the weather was warm.

He remained at the window, his thoughts on her. For months, he'd been furious with her and himself. That she could think so little of what he'd offered her and simply toss him aside when the mood struck her made _her _cruel and _him _a simpleton. But recently, a question had been nagging at him. It was the type of notion that could drag at one's thoughts to the exclusion of all else. He'd convinced himself that he had to know the answer, whatever it might be. He knew without a doubt that she did not, had _never _loved him. He considered it his own fault for assuming she had and never asking her. He'd risked his own heart and he'd lost it. But did she know that he loved her? It would make the difference between being able to forgive her and knowing that he lived with a heartless monster.

"Mrs. Hughes, I wonder," he said, looking out the window. "If I asked you a question, would you answer?" He spoke as though he were talking to the rain.

An icy hand clutched at her insides and a shaft of dread went through her heart. What could he possibly want to know? Whatever it was, it was sure to be terrible. She knew he hated her now. But she still loved him; she always would, and she knew that she would answer whatever he asked.

"If I can, I will," she said softly.

"Did you know?" he asked, turning to her and looking her in the eye.

It was the longest time in over half a year that his eyes had remained on hers. Her heart seemed to bound in an effort to fly out of her chest. While putting forth a monumental effort to calm her body and her mind, she couldn't possibly guess at his meaning.

"What? Did I know what?" she breathed quickly.

Giving up hope that she might be able to interpret his question so as to spare him the embarrassment of having to spell it out, he elaborated.

"Did you know that I loved you?"

The blood drained from her head and she thought dizzily that she might finally know how it felt to faint. Manic laughter threatened to bubble up from her chest. It couldn't be. This couldn't be happening. If that were true, it would mean she'd been utterly, stupidly, criminally wrong. It would mean that she'd tortured them both for _months _for absolutely _no reason! _It simply couldn't be. Everything she'd ever been taught, every social construct in which they spent their days, every year that had gone by with him scolding her, ignoring her….it had all made her believe that what they'd done was horrifically wrong. That he didn't love her. How _could _she have been expected to know it without him telling her?

Feverishly shaking her head against this truth, she muttered a pained "No."

Surprised, he grunted his response. He'd been slightly surprised that she answered at all. And he'd expected that, if she did answer, she would say yes. Not understanding that her 'no' meant that she was making a last-ditch effort to deny the truth to herself, he nevertheless got the answer he was looking for. And it was the truth. She had never known. Glad that he would be able to forgive her now and move on with his life, he turned back to the window.

When she gasped a sob, he jerked back around to see her ungracefully getting up from the sofa and heading to the door. Confused, he called out to her.

"Mrs. Hughes! Wait!"

"I don't believe you!" she cried, lunging for the door, desperate to escape.

And in less than one second, he understood.

Bolting over to her, he grabbed her by the shoulders. She was crying openly now, saying "No," over and over again. How dare she say, _again, _that she didn't believe him? What possible reason could he have to lie? He shook her. Once. Hard. It was quite effective at stopping her muttering, but she still refused to look him in the eye.

"God damn it, Elsie!" His shout shook dust down from the rafters. It settled in her hair, reminding him of the first time he'd wanted to kiss her.

She almost screamed when he said her name. Excruciating pain and maddening gratitude that he'd called her by her first name again warred within her.

She whipped her head up. "You..._liar!" _she hissed. "Never one word of it! You asked for what you wanted and I gave it to you! How could I have known? How _could _I?"

Somewhere in his mind, relief was just beginning to make itself felt. Even though she'd just called him a liar, he could tell that she was beginning to believe him. She was enraged, yes, but she believed him.

"Not one word?!" he threw back, furious. "Every time I tried to talk to you that way, you pushed me away! Every _time, _Elsie! How could you think it of me? That I would just take that from you? How could you love me if that's how you thought of me?"

And she realized that he was right. She had no answers to give him. She simply wept, not even aware that she was leaning on him to stay upright. They both knew that they shared the blame. And it was such a _waste. _All that time being miserable. It could all have been avoided if just one of them had been able to rise above the fears that their society and culture had taught them.

Grabbing her chin between his thumb and forefinger, he tilted her head up, forcing her to look in his eyes.

"Say it," he commanded. "Say it, Elsie. Did you love me? _Do _you love me?"

"Yes, yes," she moaned, still sobbing. "Charles. So much. I love yo-"

He didn't let her finish before his mouth was on hers and his hands were on her face, her back, her neck, unpinning her hat so that he could touch her hair again. She couldn't get close enough to him. She pulled his head to hers with such strength that their mouths were crushed together. His hands shook with the effort of not tearing her clothes off. He managed to get them both undressed just enough so that, when he led her back to the sofa, he was able to lift up her skirts and have her slide down on top of him. At their joining, she sobbed with joy and relief. He cursed loudly. Rising and falling above him, she held his face in her hands and kissed him almost constantly. Between kisses, she murmured all the loving endearments she'd longed to say.

Every "my darling" and "my love" went straight to his heart, mending the broken pieces. In sobs and sighs, they begged forgiveness of one another. And there was no doubt now that forgiveness was fully granted. No doubt of the love they shared. He wouldn't let her pull away from his grasp even to sit up straighter on him. With one arm he held her close. With the other, he guided her hip in a fast, bruising rhythm. He came first, shouting her name, grateful for the privacy provided by this small cottage and the rain. When he felt her begin to pulse around him, he brought her head down and crushed her lips to his, forcing her to scream her release into his mouth.

After, he tucked her between his large frame and the back of the sofa. Folded tightly together, they didn't mind the discomfort of the too-small piece of furniture. They didn't speak of the future then, because it didn't matter. Possibilities unfolded before them and they knew now that they would be walking their path together. They simply stroked one another's arms, backs, legs, and faces. Tears of relief and happiness mingled with tears of sadness. Sadness at the time lost, and relief that the nightmare was over. They whispered all of the affectionate names they'd longed to say. Promises were made then, too. Lovers' promises with all the hope for the future that could be contained in two hearts.

**The End**


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